And gazed upon the face of death With eye of tranquil ray, Well pleased, as with the snowy flowers, That on her bosom lay.

Then on the sad procession moved, And mid funereal gloom, The only son was there to lay His mother in the tomb.

Oh, memories of an only child, How strong and rich ye are! A wealth of concentrated love That none beside can share.

And hence, the filial grief that swells, When breaks its latest tie, Flows onward with a fuller tide Than meets the common eye.

With voice of holy prayer she pass'd Forth from her pleasant door, Where tender recollections dwell Though she returns no more.

Even so the pure and pious rise From tents of pain and woe, But leave a precious transcript here To guide us where they go.



ANNIE SEYMOUR ROBINSON,

Daughter of LUCIUS F. ROBINSON and Mrs. ELIZA S. ROBINSON, died at Hartford, Wednesday, April 10th, 1861, aged 6 years and 2 months.

Dids't hear him call, my beautiful?— The Sire, so fond and dear Who ere the last moon's waning ray, Pass'd in his prime of days away, And hath not left his peer?

Say, beckoning from yon silver cloud Though none beside might see, A hand that erst with love and pride Its little daughter's steps would guide— Stretch'd out that hand for thee?

The wreathing buds of snowy rose That o'er thy bosom lay, Were symbols in their beauty pale, Of thy young life so sweet and frail, And all unstain'd as they.

Oh stricken hearts!—bear up,—bear on,— Think of your Saviour's grace, Think of the spirit-welcome given, When at the pearly gate of Heaven, Father and child embrace.



MRS. GEORGIANA IVES COMSTOCK,

Died at Hartford, April 30th, 1861, aged 22.

I saw a brilliant bridal. All that cheers And charms the leaping heart of youth was there; And she, the central object of the group, The cherished song-bird of her father's house, Array'd in beauty, was the loved of all. Would I could tell you what a world of flowers Were concentrated there—how they o'erflow'd In wreaths and clusters—how they climb'd and swept From vase to ceiling, with their gay festoons Whispering each other in their mystic lore Of fragrance, and consulting how to swell, As best they might, the tide of happiness.

A few brief moons departed and I sought The same abode. There was a gather'd throng Beyond the threshold stone. A few white flowers Crept o'er a bosom and a gentle hand That clasp'd them not. A holy hymn awoke In plaintive melody; but she who breath'd The very soul of music from her birth, Lay there with close-seal'd lips. And the same voice That in the flushing of the autumnal rose Gladly pronounced the irrevocable words "What God hath join'd together let no man Asunder put," now, in the chasten'd tones Of deep humility and tenderness, Strove, from the armory of Heaven, to gird The hearts that freshly bled.

At close of day, In the lone, sadden'd hour of musing thought, I seem'd to view a scene where, side by side, Bridals and burials gleam'd—the smile and tear— Anguish and joy—peace in her heavenly vest, And brazen-throated war—and heard a cry, "Such is man's life below." I would have wept, Save that a symphony of harps unseen Broke from a hovering cloud; "Lo! we are they Who from earth's tribulation rose and found Our robes made white. Henceforth we grieve no more."

List! List! She mingleth in that raptur'd strain Who said so sweetly to her spirit's-guide, That the dear Lord whom she had early serv'd Stood near in her extremity, and gave Her soul full willingness to leave a world All bright with beauty, and requited love.

And so Death lost his victory, tho' he snatched The unwither'd garland out of Hymen's hand, And wound it in cold mockery round the tomb.



WENTWORTH ALEXANDER,

Son of Dr. WILLIAM and Mrs. MARY WENTWORTH ALEXANDER, died at Fayette, Iowa, May, 1861, aged 2 years.

Coming in from play, he laid his head on his mother's bosom, and said "Mama, take your boy,—boy tired," and never looked up healthfully again.

Boy tired! the drooping infant said, And meekly laid his noble head, Down on that shielding breast, Which mid all change of grief, or wo, Had been his Paradise below, His comforter and rest.

Boy tired! Alas for nursing Love, That sleepless toiled and watched and strove, For dire disease portends. Alas for Science and its skill Opposed to his unpitying will This mortal span that rends.

Boy tired! So thou hast past away, From heat and burden of the day, From snares that manhood knows,— From want and wo and deadly strife, From wrong, and weariness of life, Hast found serene repose.

Boy tired! Those words of parting pain Thou never more wilt breathe again, Nor lift the moaning cry, For naught to wound or vex, or cloy, Invades the cherub home of joy, No shade obscures the sky.

O, mother! When above ye meet, When all these years, so few and fleet, Fade like a mist away, This sorrow that thy soul hath bowed, Shall seem but as an April cloud, Before the noon-tide ray.



MRS. HARVEY SEYMOUR,

Died at Hartford, Sunday, May 5th, 1861.

She found a painless avenue to make The great transition from a world of care To one of rest. It was the Sabbath day, And beautiful with smile of vernal sun And the up-springing fragrance from the earth, With all that soothing quietude which links The consecrated season unto Him Who bade the creatures He had made, revere And keep it holy. From her fair abode, Lovely with early flowers, she took her way The second time, unto the House of God, And side by side with her life's chosen friend Walk'd cheerfully. Within those hallow'd courts, Where holds the soul communion with its God, She listening sate. But then she lean'd her head Upon her husband's shoulder, and unmark'd By one distorted feature, by the loss Or blanching of the rose-tint on her cheek, Rose to more perfect worship. It might seem As if a sacred temple, purified By prayers and praises, were a place sublime, Of fitting sanctity, wherein to hear The inexpressive call that summoneth The ready spirit upward. But the change In her delightful home, what words can tell! The shock and contrast, when a mind so skill'd With order and efficiency to fill Each post of woman's duty and of love, Vanished from all its daily ministries, And the lone daughter found the guiding voice Silent forevermore. Her's was the heart For an unswerving friendship, warm and true, And self-forgetful; her's the liberal hand To those who pine in cells of poverty, The knowledge of their state, the will to aid, The thought that cared for them, the zeal that blest.

Hence, tears o'er rugged cheeks fell fast for her, And the old white-hair'd pensioner knelt down Beside her lifeless clay and cross'd himself, And pour'd his desolate prayer; for her kind heart Saw in the creed of varying sects no bar To charity, but in their time of need Held all as brethren. 'Twas a pleasant spot, Amid fresh verdure, where they laid her down, While the young plants that o'er a daughter's grave Took summer-rooting seemed in haste to reach Forth their incipient roots and tendrils green To broider her turf-pillow. Sleep in peace, Ye, whom the ties of nature closely bound, And death disparted for a little while, Mother and gentle daughter, sleep in peace; Your forms engraven deep on loving hearts, As with a diamond's point, till memory fade.



MRS. FREDERICK TYLER,

Died at Hartford, Wednesday, June 19th, 1861.

They multiply above, with whom we walk'd In tender friendship, and whose steadfast step, Onward and upward, was a guide to us In duty's path.

They multiply above, Making the mansions that our Lord prepared And promised His redeemed, more beautiful To us, the wayside pilgrims.

One, this day Hath gone, whose memory like a loving smile Lingereth behind her. She was skilled to charm And make her pleasant home a cloudless scene Of happiness to children and to guests; But most to him whose heart for many years Did safely trust in her, finding his cares Divided and his pleasures purified. A sweet-voiced kindness, prompting word and deed, Dwelt ever with her; and, when hours of pain Narrowed the scope of her activities, Its radiance comforted the friends who came To comfort her.

With soul serenely calm She felt the cherished ties of earth recede That long had bound her in such fond control, And with a hymn upon her whitening lip, A thrilling cadence tremulously sweet, Into the valley of the shade of death Entered unshrinkingly.

How blest to rise With song of praise, unto that tuneful choir Whose harps are ne'er unstrung, and have no tone Of weary dissonance.

The rose of June Was in its flushing, and a few brief moons Had cast upon her lovely daughter's grave Their hallowed lustre, when we laid so low Her perishable part, seeming to hear Their chant of welcome, unto whom the Sun No more goes down, and partings are unknown.



MISS LAURA KINGSBURY,

Died at Hartford, July, 1861.

Faithful and true in duty's sacred sphere, How like the summer-lightning hath she fled! One moment bending o'er the letter'd page,— The next reposing with the silent dead.

No more by shaded lamp, or garden fair;— Yet hath she left a living transcript here, Yon helpless orphans will remember her,[1] And the young invalid she skilled to cheer;

And he who trusted in her from his birth, As to a Mother's love,—and friends who saw Her goodness seeking no applause from earth, But ever steadfast to its heavenly law:

For she, like her of old, with listening ear Sate at the Saviour's feet and won His plaudit dear.

[1] She was a judicious and faithful manager of the Female Beneficent Society of Hartford.



GOVERNOR JOSEPH TRUMBULL,

Died at Hartford, August 4th, 1861; and his wife, Mrs. ELIZA STORRS TRUMBULL, the night after his funeral.

Death's shafts fly thick, and love a noble mark. —And one hath fallen who bore upon his shield The name and lineage of an honor'd race Who gave us rulers in those ancient days Where truth stood first and gain was left behind.

—His was the type of character that makes Republics strong,—unstain'd fidelity,— A dignity of mind that mark'd unmov'd The unsought honors clustering round his path, And chang'd them into duties. With firm step On the high places of the earth he walk'd, Serving his Country, not to share her spoils, Nor pamper with exciting eloquence A parasite ambition. With clear eye And cautious speech, and judgment never warp'd By fancy or enthusiasm, he pursued An even, upright course. His bounties sought Unostentatious channels, and he loved To help the young who strove to help themselves, Aiding their oar against opposing tides, Into the smooth, broad waters. Thus flow'd on His almost fourscore years,—levying slight tax On form or mind, while self-forgetful still, He rose to prop the sad, or gird the weak.

—Yet, when at last, in deep repose he lay, His classic features, and unfurrow'd brow, Wearing the symmetry of earlier days Which Death, as if relenting, render'd back In transitory gleam, 'twas sweet to hear His aged Pastor at the coffin-side Bearing full tribute to his piety So many lustrums, that consistent faith Which nerv'd his journey and had led him home. Home?—Yes! Give thanks, ye, who still travel on, Oft startled, as some pilgrim from your side Falls through the arches of Time's broken bridge Without a warning, and is seen no more— Give thanks that he is safe,—at home,—in heaven.

* * * * *

Back to the grave, from whence ye scarce have turn'd, Break up the clods on which the dews of night But twice had rested. Lo! another comes. She, who for many years had garner'd up Her heart's chief strength in him, finding his love Armor and solace, in all weal or woe, Seem'd the world poor without him, that she made Such haste to join him in the spirit-land? Through the dark valley of the shade of death, Treading so close behind him? Scarce his lip Learn'd the new song of heaven, before she rose To join the enraptur'd strain. Her earthly term Of fair and faithful duty well perform'd, In fear of God, and true good will to man, How blessed thus to enter perfect rest, Where is no shadow of infirmity, Nor fear of change, but happy souls unite In high ascriptions to redeeming Love.

* * * * *

And thou,[1] sole daughter of their house and heart, Leading thy mournful little ones to look Into the open and insatiate tomb, With what a rushing tide thy sorrows came. —The sudden smiting, in his glorious prime Of him who held the key of all thy joys,— The fair child following him,—the noble Friend Who watch'd thee with parental pride,—and now Father and Mother have forsaken thee. —The lessons of a life-long pilgrimage Thou hast achiev'd, while yet a few brief moons With waning finger, as in mockery wrote Of treasur'd hopes, more fleeting than their own.

—But mays't thou from these sterner teachings gain A higher seat, where no o'ershadowing cloud Veileth the purpose of God's discipline. And mid their glad embrace,—the gone before,— The re-united ne'er to part,—behold The teaching of no bitter precept lost, Nor tear-sown seed fail of its harvest crown.

[1] Mrs. Eliza S. Robinson, the only child of Governor and Mrs. Trumbull, whose early life had been a scene of singularly unbroken felicity, was appointed to a fearful contrast of rapid and severe bereavements. Her noble husband, Lucius F. Robinson, Esq., in the midst of his days and usefulness, was suddenly smitten,—immediately after, their beautiful child, Annie Seymour,—then her distinguished relative, Chief Justice Storrs, who from her birth had regarded her with a fatherly love; and then both her parents, side by side, almost hand in hand, passed to the tomb.

With unsurpassed calmness, she met this whelming tide of sorrow, girding herself to her maternal duties, in tho armor of a disciple of Jesus Christ. Yet with little warning, she was herself soon summoned to follow those beloved ones, dying in August, 1862, at the age of 35, leaving three orphan daughters, and a large circle of friends to lament the loss of her beautiful example of every christian grace and virtue.



MRS. EMILY ELLSWORTH,

Wife of Govenor ELLSWORTH, and daughter of Noah Webster, LL.D., died at Hartford, August 23d, 1861.

Not with the common forms of funeral grief We mourn for her who in the tomb this day Taketh her narrow couch. For we have need Of such example as she set us here, The sphere of christian duty beautified By gifts of intellect, and taste refined; A precious picture, set in frame of gold And hung on high.

Hers was a life that bore The test of scrutiny, and they who saw Its inner ministration, day by day, Bore fullest witness to its symmetry, Its delicate tissues, and unwavering crown Of piety. A heritage of fame, And the rich culture of her early years Wrought no contempt for woman's household care, But gave it dignity. Order was hers, And system, and an industry that weighed The priceless value of each fleeting hour. Hers was a charm of manner felt by all, A reference for authorities that marked The olden time, and that true courtesy Which made the aged happy.

Scarce it seemed That she was of their number, or the links Of threescore years and ten, indeed had wound Their coil around her, with such warmth the heart, And cloudless mind retained their energies. Beauty and grace were with her to the last, And fascination that withheld the guest Beyond the allotted time. More would we say, But her affections 'tis not ours to touch In lays so weak. He of their worth might tell, Whose dearest hopes so long with hers entwined, And they who shared the intense maternal love, That knew no pause of effort, no decay, No weariness, but glazed the dying eye With heaven-born lustre.

So, we bid farewell; Friend and Exemplar, we who tread so close In thine unechoing footsteps.

Be thy faith As strong for us, when we the bridge shall pass To the grand portal of Eternity.



REV. STEPHEN JEWITT, D.D.,

Died at New Haven, August 25th, 1861, aged 78.

I well remember him, and heard his voice In vigorous prime, beneath the Temple-Arch, His brow enkindling with its holy themes.

And I remember to have heard it said In what a patient studiousness of toil His youth had pass'd, and how his manhood's tent Spread out its curtains joyously, to shield His aged parents, from their lonely home Amid the glory of the Berkshire hills, Turning in tender confidence to him; And giving scope to earn the boon that crowns The fifth commandment of the decalogue. —And this he did, for their departing prayer Fell balmily upon his filial heart, As when the dying Jacob, blessed his race And worshipp'd, leaning on his patriarch-staff. —His lengthened life amid a peaceful scene Flow'd on, with loving memories. He had serv'd The Church he lov'd, not in luxurious ease, But self-forgetful as a pioneer, When she had fewer sons to build her walls, Or teach her gates salvation. And the dome Of yon fair College on its classic heighth So beautiful without, and blest within,— By liberal deeds, as well as gracious words Remembereth him and with recording pen Upon the tablet of its earliest[1] friends Engraves his name. So, full of honor'd years, Blessing and blest, he took his way, above.

[1] The Rev. Dr. Jewitt was tho first founder of a scholarship in Trinity College, Hartford, a quarter of a century since.



MISS DELIA WOODRUFF GODDING,

A faithful Teacher of the young from early years, and recently the Principal of a Female Seminary and Boarding School at St. Anthony, Minnesota, died suddenly of an attack of fever, while on a visit at her paternal home in Vermont, September, 15th, 1861.

Thine earnest life is over, sainted Friend! And hush'd the teaching voice that gladly pour'd Knowledge and goodness o'er the plastic mind. —Full many a pupil of thy varied lore Amid thine own New-England's elm-crowned vales Holds thee in tenderness of grateful thought, And far away in the broad-featured west Where the strong Sire of waters robes in green The shores of Minnesota, comes a wail From youthful bands expecting thy return, To guide them, as the shepherd leads the lamb.

They watch in vain. The pleasant halls are dark Once lighted by thy smile, and flowing tears Reveal the love that linger'd there for thee. Said we thy life was o'er? Forgive the words. We take them back. Thou hast begun to live. Here was the budding, there the perfect flower, Here the faint star, and there the unsetting sun, Here the scant preface, there the open Book Where angels read forever.

* * * * *

Here on the threshold, the dim vestibule Thou with a faithful hand didst toil to tune That harp of praise within the unfolding heart Which 'neath the temple-arch not made with hands Swells the full anthem of Eternity.



MISS SARA K. TAYLOR,

Died at Hartford, October 23d, 1861, aged 20.

How beautiful in death The young and lovely sleeper lies— Sweet calmness on the close-sealed eyes, Flowers o'er the snowy neck and brow Where lustrous curls profusely flow; If 'twere not for the icy chill That from her marble hand doth thrill, And for her lip that gives no sound, And for the weeping all around, How beautiful were death.

How beautiful in life! Her pure affections heavenward moving, Her guileless heart so full of loving, Her joyous smile, her form of grace, Her clear mind lighting up the face, And making home a blessed place, Still breathing thro' the parents' heart A gladness words could ne'er impart, A faith that foil'd affliction's dart— How beautiful her life.

Gone to the Better Land! Before the world's cold mist could shade The brightness on her spirit laid, Before the autumnal breeze might fray One leaflet from her wreath away, Or crisp one tendril of the vine That hope and happiness did twine— Gone—in the soul's unfaded bloom That dreads no darkness of the tomb— Gone to the Better Land.



MR. JOHN WARBURTON,

Died at Hartford, November, 1861.

The knot of crape upon yon stately door, And sadness brooding o'er the sun-bright halls, What do they signify? Death hath been there Where truth and goodness hand in hand with love Walk'd for so many years. Death hath been there, To do mid flowing tears his mighty work, Extinguishing the tyranny of pain And taking the immortal essence home Where it would be. Yet is there left behind A transcript that we cherish, and a chasm We have no power to fill. Almost it seems That we beheld him still, with quiet step Moving among us, saintly and serene, Clear-sighted, upright, held in high regard, Yet meekly unambitious, seeking nought Of windy honor from the mouth of men But with the Gospel's perfect code content, Breathing good-will to all. Freely his wealth Wrought blessed channels mid the sons of need, Lending Philanthropy and Piety A stronger impulse in their mission-course To ameliorate and save.

So, thus intent On higher deeds and aims than earth supplies, An adept in that true philosophy Learnt only in Christ's school, he calmly went Unto his Master and the Class above.



REV. HENRY ALBERTSON POST,

Died at Warrensburgh, New York, November 12th, 1861, aged 26.

[1]Read me rejoicing Psalms, Oh dearest one, and best! I go from war to peace, From pain to glorious rest,

Where the bright life-tree sheds Around its precious balms, So, while I linger here Read me rejoicing psalms.

And when my place I take Amid the ransom'd throng Who through a Saviour's love Uplift the immortal song,

Repress the tear of grief That washes faith away, And brave in zeal and love Await our meeting-day.

Yes, let thy course below Through all its fleeting days In its angelic ministries Be as a psalm of praise.

[1] His request of his wife during the sufferings of an acute dyptheria, which suddenly separated him from an attached people, was, "Read me rejoicing Psalms."



MISS CAROLINE L. GRIFFIN,

Died at New York, November 17th, 1861.

WRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

The day returns, beloved friend When in thy Mother's arms Thou a fair gift from Heaven wert laid In all thine infant charms, That day, with cloudless sky returns, But yet thou art not here And from the smitten Mother's eye Distils the mourner's tear.

The wondrous brightness of thy smile, Thy tones of greeting kind, The love of knowledge that inspired Thy strong and ardent mind, Thy pity for the suffering poor, Thy patient zeal to teach Their children, though in manners rude And ignorant in speech,

And all thy many deeds and words Of friendship's earnest part, Are with a never-fading trace Depictured on my heart. But thou art with that Saviour dear Who was thine early choice, And mid thy blooming youth didst bend A listener to His voice,

So thy firm faith without a fear Launch'd forth on Jordan's wave The victor-palm-branch in thy hand That o'er stern Death He gave; And may we meet, beloved friend At God's appointed day Where every care and pain of earth Have fled like dreams away.



MR. NORMAND BURR,

Editor of the "Christian Secretary" for more than twenty years, died at Hartford, December 5th, aged 59.

We knew him as a man of sterling worth, Whose good example is a legacy Better than gold for those he leaves behind.

—His inborn piety flowed forth in streams Of social kindness and domestic love, Cheering with filial warmth the parents' heart, And making his own home a pleasant place.

—His was that self-reliant industry, Smiling at hardship, which develops well The energies of manhood, and lends strength To commonwealths.

By silent messenger, A weekly scroll, he strove to spread abroad The stores of knowledge, and increase the fruits Of righteousness. Hence is his loss bemoan'd By many who had never seen his face Here in the flesh, but thro' the links of thought Held intimate communion.

The true life Of virtue, is not lost to men below, Though smitten by the frost of death it fall,— Its quickening memory survives, to gird On in the heavenward race, and gently guide Where the high plaudit of the Judge is won.



HON. THOMAS S. WILLIAMS,

Late Chief Justice of Connecticut, died at Hartford, on Sunday morning, December 15th, 1861, aged 84.

'Tis not for pen and ink, Or the weak measures of the muse, to give Fit transcript of his virtues who hath risen Up from our midst this day.

And yet 'twere sad If such example were allow'd to fleet Without abiding trace for those behind. To stand on earth's high places, in the garb Of Christian meekness, yet to comprehend And track the tortuous policies of guile With upright aim, and heart immaculate, To pass just sentence on the wiles of fraud, And deeds of wickedness, yet freshly keep The fountain of good-will to all mankind, To mark for more than fourscore years, a line Of light without a mist, are victories Not oft achiev'd by frail humanity, Yet were they his. Of charities that knew No stint or boundary, save the woes of man He wish'd no mention made. But doubt ye not Their record is above. Without the tax That age doth levy, on the eye or ear, Movement of limbs, or social sympathies, In sweet retirement of domestic joy His calm, unshadow'd pilgrimage was closed By an unsighing transit.

Our first wintry morn Lifted its Sabbath face, and saw him sit All reverent, at the table of his Lord, And heard that kindly modulated voice Teaching Heaven's precepts to a youthful class Which erst with statesman's eloquence controll'd A different audience. The next holy day Wondering beheld his place at church unfill'd, And found him drooping in his peaceful home, Guarded by tenderest love.

But on the third, While the faint dawn was struggling to o'ercome The lingering splendors of a full-orb'd moon, The curtains of his tent were gently raised And he had gone,—gone,—mourn'd by every heart Among the people. They had seen in him The truth personified, and felt the worth Of such a Mentor.

'Twere impiety To let the harp of praise in silence lie, We who beheld so beautiful a life Complete its perfect circle. Praise to Him Who gave him power in Christ's dear name to pass Unharm'd, the dangerous citadel of time, Unsullied, o'er its countless snares to rise From earthly care—to rest,—from war—to peace,— From chance and change,—to everlasting bliss. Give praise to God.



COLONEL H. L. MILLER,

Died at Hartford, December 30th, 1861.

Sorrow and Joy collude. One mansion hears The children shouting o'er their Christmas Tree, While in the next resound the widow's wail And weeping of the fatherless. So walk Sickness and health. One rounds the cheek at morn, The other with a ghost-like movement glides Unto the nightly couch, and lo! the wheels Of life drive heavily, and all its springs Revolving in mysterious mechanism Are troubled. And how slight the instrument That sometimes sends the strong man to his tomb, Revealing that the glory of his prime, Is as the flower of grass.

Of this we thought When looking on the face that lay so calm And comely in its narrow coffin-bed, Remembering how the months of pain that sank His manly vigor to an infant's sigh Were met unmurmuringly. Dense was the throng That gather'd to his obsequies,—and well The Pastor's prayer of faith essayed to gird The smitten hearts that whelm'd in sorrow mourn'd Husband and sire, whose ever-watchful love Guarded their happiness.

Slowly moved on The long procession, led by martial men Who deeply in their patriot minds deplored Their fallen compeer, and bade music lay With plaintive voice, her chaplet down beside His open grave. Then, the first setting sun Of our New-Year, cast off his wintry frown, And seemed to write in clear, long lines of gold Upon the whiten'd earth, the glorious words, So shall the dead arise, at the last trump, Sown here in weakness, to be raised in power, Sown in corruption, to put on the robes Of immortality. Praise be to Him Who gives through Christ our Lord, to dying flesh Such victory.



COLONEL SAMUEL COLT,

Died at Hartford, on Friday morning, January 10th, 1862.

And hath he fallen,—whom late we saw In manly vigor bold? That stately form,—that noble face, Shall we no more behold?— Not now of the renown we speak That gathers round his name, For other climes beside our own Bear witness to his fame;

Nor of the high inventive power That stretched from zone to zone, And 'neath the pathless ocean wrought,— For these to all are known;— Nor of the love his liberal soul His native City bore, For she hath monuments of this Till memory is no more;

Nor of the self-reliant force By which his way he told, Nor of the Midas-touch that turn'd All enterprise to gold, And made the indignant River yield Unto the ozier'd plain,— For these would ask a wider range Than waits the lyric strain:

We choose those unobtrusive traits That dawn'd with influence mild, When in his noble Mother's arms We saw the noble child, And noted mid the changeful scenes Of boyhood's sport or strife, That quiet, firm and ruling mind Which marked advancing life.

So onward as he held his course Through hardship to renown, He kept fresh sympathy for those Who cope with fortune's frown, The kind regard for honest toil, The joy to see it rise, The fearless truth that never sought His frailties to disguise,

The lofty mind that all alone Gigantic plans sustain'd, Yet turned unboastfully away From fame and honors gained; The tender love for her who blest His home with angel-care, And for the infant buds that rose In opening beauty fair.

Deep in the heart whence flows this lay, Is many a grateful trace Of friendship's warm and earnest deed Which nought can e'er replace; For in the glory of his prime The pulse forsakes his breast, And by his buried little ones He lays him down to rest.

And thousand stand with drooping head Beside his open grave, To whose industrious, faithful hands, The daily bread he gave, The daily bread that wife and babe Or aged parent cheer'd, Beneath the pleasant cottage roofs, Which he for them had rear'd.

There's mourning in the princely halls So late with gladness gay, A tear within the heart of love That will not dry away; A sense of loss on all around, A sigh of grief and pain— "The like of him we lose to day, We ne'er shall see again."



MADAM HANNAH LATHROP,

Died in Norwich, Connecticut, January 18th, 1862, aged 92.

Had I an artist's pencil, I might sketch Her as she was, in her young matronhood Graceful and dignified, serene and fair.

—I well remember, when at Sabbath-morn, With pious zeal, the rural church she sought, Our rural church,—by rocks o'er-canopied,— Where with her stately husband and their group Of younglings bright, each in the accustom'd seat, How many a glance was toward her beauty bent Admiringly. In those primeval days The aristocracy that won respect, Sprang not from wealth alone, but laid its base In goodness and in virtue. Thus she held Her healthful influence in society Without gainsaying voice. The polity Of woman's realm,—sweet home,—those inner cares And countless details that promote its peace, Prosperity and order, were not deem'd Beneath the highest then, nor wholly left To hireling hands. This science she upheld, And with her circle of accomplishments And charms so mingled it, that all combined Harmoniously. That energy and grace So often deem'd the exclusive property Of youth's fresh season, or of vigorous prime, She brought to Age, an unencumbered dower, Making the gift of being beautiful, Even beyond ninety years. And though the change Of mortal life, dispers'd her cherish'd band, And some had gone their own fair nests to build And some arisen to mansions in the skies Alone, yet undismay'd, her post she kept, Guiding a household in the same good ways Of order and of hospitality.

So, when with mild decline, the sunset came, Her powers still unimpair'd, all willingly As a confiding and obedient child Goes to its father's house, she went above.



HENRIETTA SELDEN COLT,

Daughter of Col. SAMUEL and Mrs. ELIZABETH COLT, died January 20th, 1862, aged 7 months and 27 days.

THE MOURNING MOTHER.

A tomb for thee, my babe! Dove of my bosom, can it be? But yesterday in all thy charms, Laughing and leaping in my arms, A tomb and shroud for thee!

A couch for thee mine own, Beneath the frost and snow! So fondly cradled, soft and warm, And sheltered from each breath of storm, A wintry couch for thee!

Thy noble father's there, But the last week he died, He would have stretched his guarding arm, To shelter thee from every harm, Nestle thee to his side.

Thy ruby lip skill'd not That father's name to speak, Yet wouldst thou pause mid infant play To kiss his picture when away, The love smile on thy cheek.

Thy brother slumbereth there, Our first-born joy was he, Thy little sister sweetly fair, Most like a blessed bird of air; A goodly company.

Only one left with me, One here and three above, Be not afraid my precious child! The Shepherd of the lambs is mild,— Sleep in His love.

Thou never saw'st our Spring Unfold the blossoms gay; But thou shalt see perennial bowers, Enwreathed with bright and glorious flowers, That cannot fade away.

And thou shalt join the song, That happy cherubs pour, In their adoring harmonies: I'll hear ye, darlings, when I rise To that celestial shore.

Yes, there's a Saviour dear,— Keep down, oh tears, that swell! A righteous God who reigns above, Whose darkest ways are truth and love, He doeth all things well.



THE LITTLE BROTHERS,

WILLIAM CHILDS BREWER, died Jan. 24th, 1862, aged 7 years, and GEORGE CLEVELAND BREWER, aged 5 years, at Springfield, Mass., Feb. 4th, 1862.

The noble boy amid his sports Droop'd like a smitten flower That feels the frost-king's fatal shaft, And withers in its bower.

But then a younger darling sank In childhood's rosy bloom, And those whose hearts were one from birth, Were brothers in the tomb.

Not in the tomb. Ah no! They rose Through Christ their Saviour's love, In his blest presence to cement Their deathless bond of love.

Are they not dwelling side by side? Have they not 'scaped the strife, The snares, the sins, the woes that stain This pilgrimage of life?

Oh heart of sorrowing Love, be strong! Tho' tenderest ties are riven, For do not earth's bereavments aid The angel-chant of Heaven.



MR. DAVID F. ROBINSON,

Died at Hartford, January 26th, 1862, aged 61.

We did not think it would be so;— We kept The hope-lamp trimm'd and burning. Day by day There came reports to cheer us;—and we thought God in his goodness would not take away So soon, another of that wasting band Of worthies, whose example in our midst, Precious and prized, we knew not how to spare. These were our thoughts and prayers;— But He who reigns Above the clouds had different purposes.

* * * * *

On the low pillow where so late he mourn'd His gifted first-born, in the prime of days, Circled by all that makes life beautiful And full of joy, his honored head is laid,— The Sire and Son,—ne'er to be sunder'd more. Yet his unblemish'd memory still survives, And walks among us;—the upright intent,— Firmness that conquer'd obstacles,—the zeal For public good,—the warmth of charity, And piety, that gave unwithering root To every virtue. Of the pleasant home Where his most fond affections shed their balm And found response,—now in its deep eclipse And desolate, it is not ours to speak; Nor by a powerless sympathy invade The sacredness of grief. 'Twere fitter far For faith to contemplate that glorious Home Which knows no change, and lose itself in praise Of Him, who to His faithful followers gives Such blessed passport o'er the flood of Death, That "where He is, there shall His servant be."



MR. SAMUEL TUDOR,

Died at Hartford, January 29th, 1862, aged 92.

We saw him on a winter's day, Beneath the hallowed dome, Where for so many years his heart Had found its Sabbath-home, Yet not amid his ancient seat Or in the accustomed place Arose his fair, and reverend brow, And form of manly grace.

Then Music, through the organ's soul Melodious descant gave, But yet his voice so rich and sweet Swell'd not the sacred stave, The Christmas wreaths o'er arch and nave Were lingering still to cheer His parting visit to the fane Which he had help'd to rear.

And flowers were on the coffin-lid And o'er his bosom strown, Fit offering for the friend who loved The plants of every zone, And bade them in his favor'd cell Unfold their charms sublime, And felt the florist's genial joy Repel the frost of time.

No cloud of sorrow marr'd his course, Save when her loss he wept, Whose image in his constant soul Its angel presence kept, But heavenly Mercy's balm was shed To cheer his lonely breast, For tenderest love in filial hearts His latest moments blest.

And so, for more than ninety years Flow'd on his cloudless span, In love of Nature, and of Art, And kindred love for man, Our oldest patriarch, kind and true, To all our City dear, His cordial tones, his greeting words No more on earth we hear.

Last of that band of noble men Who for their Church's weal Took counsel in her hour of need And wrought with tireless zeal, Nor in their fervent toil declined Nor loiter'd on their ways, Until her Gothic towers arose And her full chant of praise.

But as we laid him down with tears, The westering Sun shone bright, And through the ice-clad evergreens Diffused prismatic light, Type of the glory that awaits The rising of the just, And so, we left him in the grave That Christ his Lord had blest.



HENRY HOWARD COMSTOCK,

Youngest child of the late Capt. JOHN C. COMSTOCK, died at Hartford, February 11th, 1862, a fortnight after his father, aged 11 months.

It was a fair and mournful sight Once at the wintry tide, When to the dear baptismal rite Was brought an infant, sweet and bright, His father's couch beside,

His dying father's couch beside, Whose eye, with tranquil ray, Beheld upon that beauteous head The consecrated water shed, Then calmly pass'd away.

A little while the lovely babe, As if by angels lent, With soft caress and soothing wile Invok'd a widow'd mother's smile, Then to his father went.

Christ's holy seal upon his brow, Christ's sign upon his breast, He 'scaped from all the cares and woes That earth inflicts or manhood knows, And enter'd with the blest.



REV. DR. DAVID SMITH,

For many years Pastor of a Church in Durham, Conn., died at Fair Haven, March 3d, 1862, aged 94.

The transcript of a long, unblemish'd life Replete with happiness and holiness, Is a fair page to look upon with love In this world's volume oft defaced by sin, And marr'd with misery. And he, who laid His earthly vestments down this day, doth leave Such tablet for the heart. 'Twas good to see That what he preach'd to others, he portray'd Before them in example, that the eye Adding its stronger comment to the ear, Might lend new impulse to the flock he led Toward the Great Shepherd's fold.

* * * * *

Along his path Sorrows he met, but such as wrought him gain, And joys that made not weak his hold on heaven, But touch'd his brow with sunbeams, and his heart With warmer charity. Year after year, Home's duties and its hospitalities Were blent with cheerfulness, and when the chill Of hoary Time approach'd he took no part In that repulsive criticism of age, Pronouncing with a frown, the former days Better than these. The florid glow that tints The cheek of health, which youth perchance, accounts Its own peculiar beauty, dwelt with him Till more than fourscore years and ten achiev'd Their patriarch circle, while the pleasant smile And genial manner, casting light around His venerable age, conspired to make His company desirable to all.

And so beloved on earth and waited for Above, he closed this mortal pilgrimage In perfect peace.



MISS. EMILY B. PARISH,

Formerly a Teacher in Hartford, died at Cleveland, Ohio, March 12th, 1862.

Teachers,—she is not here With the first breath of Spring Her aid to your devoted band With cheering smile and ready hand Untiringly to bring.

Pupils,—her guiding voice, Her sweetly warbled strain Urging your spirits to be wise With daily, tuneful harmonies Ye shall not hear again.

Parents,—and loving friends The parents' heart who shared, Give thanks to that abounding grace Which led her through the Christian race, To find its high reward.

Lover,—the spell is broke That o'er your life she wove, Look to her flitting robes that gleam So white, beyond cold Jordan's stream, Look to the Land of Love.



HARRIET ALLEN ELY,

Died at Providence, Rhode Island, April 27th, 1862, aged 7 years and 2 months.

Seven blest years our darling daughter, We have held thee to our hearts, Every season growing dearer; We have held thee near and nearer, Never dreaming thus to part.

Seven brief years—our only daughter— Sweet has been the parent rule, Infant watch by cradle nightly, 'Till we saw thy footsteps lightly Tripping joyously to school.

Germ of promise,—bud of beauty, To our tenderest nurture given, Not for our too dim beholding Was thy fair and full unfolding; That perfection is in Heaven.

Earth no license had to harm thee, Time no power to touch thy bloom, Holy is our faith to meet thee, Glorious is our trust to greet thee Far beyond the conquering tomb.



MISS CATHARINE BALL,

Daughter of Hon. Judge BALL of Hoosick Falls, N.Y., died at the City of Washington, 1862.

Bright sunbeam of a father's heart Whose earliest radiance shone Delightful o'er a mother's eye Like morning-star in cloudless sky, Say, whither hast thou flown?

Fair inmate of a happy home Whose love so gently shed Could a serene enchantment make And love in stranger bosoms wake, Ah, whither art thou fled?

They know, who trust the Saviour's word With faith no tear can dim, That such as bear His spirit here And do His will in duty's sphere Shall rise to dwell with Him.

They know, who feel an Angel near, Though hid from mortal sight And reaching out to her their hand Shall safer reach that Pleasant Land Whose buds no blast can blight.

Even I, who but with fleeting glance Beheld thee here below, From its remembered sweetness gain New impulse toward that heavenly train Whose harps in never-ceasing strain With God's high praises glow.



MRS. MORRIS COLLINS,

Died at Hartford, May 19th, 1862.

Frail stranger at the gate of life, Too weak to grasp its key, O'er whom the Sun on car of gold Hath but a few times risen and roll'd, Unnoticed still by thee,—

To whom the toil of breath is new, In this our vale of time Whose feet are yet unskill'd to tread The grassy carpet round thee spread At the soft, vernal prime,—

Deep sympathy and pitying care Regard thy helpless moan, And 'neath thy forehead arching high Methinks, the brightly opening eye Doth search for something gone.

Yon slumberer 'mid the snowy flowers, With young, unfrosted hair, Awakes not at the mournful sound Of bird-like voices murmuring round "Why sleeps our Mother there?"

Hers was that sunshine of the heart, Which Home's fair region cheer'd, Hers the upright, unselfish aim, The fond response to duty's claim, The faith that never fear'd.

Oh mystery! brooding oft so dark O'er this our path below, Not ours, with wild, repining sigh, To ask the wherefore, or the why, But drink our cup of woe.

So, in her shrouded beauty cold, Yield to the earth its own, Assured that Heaven will guard the trust, Of that which may not turn to dust, But dwells beside the Throne.



MRS. MARGARET WALBRIDGE,

Died at Saratoga, N.Y., June 2d, 1862, aged 35.

WRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

This was her birth-day here, When summer's latest flowers Were kindling to their flush and prime, As if they felt how short the time In these terrestrial bowers.

She hath a birth-day now No hastening night that knows, She hath a never-ending year Which feels no blight of autumn sere, Nor chill of wintry snows.

She hath no pain or fear, But by her Saviour's side Expansion finds for every power; And knowledge her angelic dower An ever-flowing tide.

They sorrow, who were called From her sweet smile to part, Who wore her love-links fondly twined Like woven threads of gold refined Around their inmost heart.

Tears are upon the cheeks Of little ones this day, God of the motherless,—whose eye Notes even the ravens when they cry Wipe Thou their tears away:

Oh, comfort all who grieve Beside the sacred urn,— For brief our space to wail or sigh, Like grass we fade, like dreams we fly, And rest with those we mourn.



THE BROTHERS,

Mr. FISHER AMES BUELL, died at Hartford, May 19th, 1861, aged 25, and Mr. HENRY R. BUELL, on his voyage to Europe, June 20th, 1862, aged 30, the only children of Mr. ROBERT and Mrs. LAURA BUELL.

Both gone. Both smitten in their manly prime, Yet the fair transcript of their virtues here, And treasured memories of their boyhood's time Allay the anguish of affection's tear.

One hath his rest amid the sacred shade Whose turf reveals the mourner's frequent tread, And one beneath the unfathomed deep is laid To slumber till the sea restores her dead.

The childless parents weep their broken trust, Hope's fountain failing at its cherish'd springs, And widow'd sorrow shrouds herself in dust, While one lone flowret to her bosom clings.

Yet no blind chance this saddening change hath wrought, No dark misrule this mortal life attends, A Heavenly Father's never-erring thought Commingles with the discipline He sends.

Not for His reasons let us dare to ask, His secret counsels not aspire to read, But faithful bow to each allotted task And make His will our solace and our creed.



HON. PHILLIP RIPLEY,

Died at Hartford, July 8th, 1862, aged 68.

It is not meet the good and just Oblivious pass away, And leave no record for their race, Except a dim and fading trace, The memory of a day.

We need the annal of their course, Their pattern for a guide,— Their armor that temptation quell'd,— The beacon-light that forth they held O'er Time's delusive tide.

Within the House of God I sate At Summer's morning ray,— And sadly mark'd a vacant seat Where erst in storm, or cold or heat While lustrums held their way,

Was ever seen with reverent air Intent on hallow'd lore, A forehead edg'd with silver hair, A manly form bow'd low in prayer,— They greet our eyes no more.

And where [1]Philanthropy commands Her lighted lamp to burn, And youthful feet inured to stray Are wisely warn'd to duty's way, Repentant to return,

He, with a faith that never fail'd, Its first inception blest,— And year by year, with zeal untired, Wise counsel lent,—new hopes inspired, And righteous precepts prest.

They did him honor at his grave, Those men of mystic sign, Whose ancient symbols bright and fair, The Book, the Level, and the Square, Betoken truth benign:

All do him honor, who regard Integrity sincere, But they who knew his virtues best, While fond remembrance rules the breast, Will hold his image dear.

[1] Mr. Ripley was a persevering friend and patron of the State Reform School at West Meriden. He had long sustained the office of Trustee for the County of Hartford, and was at the time of his death, the Chairman of that body, and a prominent member of its Executive Committee. His frequent visits to that Institution, his attention to all its internal concerns, and earnest satisfaction in its prosperity, entitle him to its grateful remembrance.



RICHARD ELY COLLINS,

Son of Mr. MORRIS COLLINS, died at Wethersfield, September 5th, 1862, aged 3 months and 27 days.

It was a sad and lovely sight They call'd us to behold, That infant forehead high and fair, Those beauteous features sculptured rare, Yet breathless all, and cold.

Heard it in dreams, an angel voice Soft as the zephyr's tone? The yearning of a Mother mild To clasp once more her three months' child But a few days her own?

Just a few days of wasting pain She linger'd by its side, And then consign'd to stranger arms The frail unfolding of the charms She would have watch'd with pride.

Yet happy babe! to reach a home Beyond all sorrowing cares, Where none a Mother's loss can moan Or seek for bread, and find a stone, Or fall in fatal snares.

Thrice happy,—to have pass'd away Ere Time's sore ills invade,— From fragrant buds that drooping shed Their life-sigh o'er thy coffin-bed— To flowers that never fade.



MISS ELIZABETH BRINLEY,

Died at Hartford, September 28th, 1862.

We miss her at the chancel-side, For when we last drew near, The holy Eucharist to share, She, with the warmth of praise and prayer Was meekly kneeling here.

We miss her when the liberal hand Relieves a thirsting soil, And when the Blessed Church demands Assistance for the mission bands That on her frontier toil.

We miss her 'mid the gather'd train Of children[1] young and poor, Whom year by year she deign'd to teach With faithful zeal and patient speech, And hope that anchor'd sure.

Her couch is in the ancestral tomb With Putnam's honor'd dust, The true in word, the bold in deed, A bulwark in his Country's need, A tower of strength and trust.

Her spirit's home is with her Lord, Whom from her youth she sought, The miss'd below hath found above The promise of a God of Love Made to the pure in thought.

[1] The well-conducted Industrial School in connection with St. Paul's Church, where she had been for several years an indefatigable and valued teacher.



MR. JOHN A. TAINTOR,

Died at Hartford, on Saturday Evening, November 15th, 1862, aged 62 years.

A sense of loss is on us. One hath gone Whose all-pervading energy doth leave A void and silence 'mid the haunts of men And desolation for the hearts that grieve In his fair mansion, so bereft and lone, Whence the inspiring smile, and cheering voice have flown.

Those too there are who eloquently speak Of his firm friendship, not without a tear, Of its strong power to undergird the weak And hold the faltering feet in duty's sphere, While in the cells of want, a broken trust In bitterness laments, that he is of the dust.

In foreign climes, with patriotic eye He sought what might his Country's welfare aid, And the rich flocks of Spain, at his behest Spread their proud fleeces o'er our verdant glade, And Scotia's herds, as on their native shore Our never-failing streams, and pastures rich explore.

Intent was he to adorn his own domain With all the radiant charms that Flora brings, There still, the green-house flowers pronounce his name, The favor'd rose its grateful fragrance flings, And in their faithful ranks to guard the scene Like changeless memories rise, the unfading evergreen.

On friendly deeds intent, while on his way A widow'd heart to cheer,—One grasp'd his hand Whose icy touch the beating heart can stay, And in a moment, at that stern command Unwarn'd, yet not unready, he doth show The great transition made, that waits on all below.

Yet, ah! the contrast,—when the form that pass'd Forth from its gates, in full vitality, Is homeward, as a lifeless burden borne, No more to breathe kind word, or fond reply, Each nameless care assume with earnest skill, Nor the unspoken wish of those he loved fulfill.

But hallow'd lips within the sacred dome Where he so long his sabbath-worship paid Have given his soul to God from whence it came And laid his head beneath the cypress shade, While "be ye also ready," from his tomb, In a Redeemer's voice, doth neutralize the gloom.

THE END